


Placebo

by msgenevieve



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drama, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, NC-17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-29
Updated: 2008-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he wants is a day when he's not forced to think about death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Placebo

**Author's Note:**

> Set during #410, The Legend, and contains spoilers up to and including that episode, as well as canon dialogue that does not belong to me.

~*~

 _No offense, college boy, but this sucker’s heavy. You’re gonna need a little bulk down there._

Michael stares at the open coffin, his gaze transfixed by the pallid curve of Brad Bellick’s forehead, his ears ringing with the last words the other man would ever say to him. _Such inglorious final words for a such a noble sacrifice_ , he thinks dully.

Linc lowers the lid of the plain coffin, the dull thud of wood meeting the fake velvet lining obviously a signal to the government mortuary attendants to spring into action. The coffin is whisked into the back of the hearse, the back door snapping shut with hasty precision. Self slips out to his own car as his minions climb into the front of the hearse, the engine purring discreetly as they prepare to take Bradley Bellick back to his proud mother.

 _It could have just as easily been Linc_ , Michael thinks, and a ripple of nausea dances through his gut.

He can’t watch.

Turning, he takes a few steps, then belatedly realises he’s not the only one who couldn’t bear to see Bellick’s body being taken away. Alex has vanished into the upper level, while Lincoln has stalked past the hearse and into the depths of the warehouse. Sucre has a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and his cell phone in the other, and Michael knows he’s calling Bellick’s mother. He thinks of Alex placing the police badge on Brad’s chest, and something inside him shrivels.

It could have been Lincoln.

It could have been _him_.

His last thought has him spinning on his heel, looking for Sara, his heart sinking a little further when he catches sight of her. She is standing alone, her back to the room, her head bowed, her fingers threaded through the wire fencing. They haven’t been alone together since they returned from the hospital, and he suddenly doesn’t care if she tells him she’d rather be alone.

“Sara?”

It takes her a few seconds to answer, long enough for him to realize she’s crying, silent tears pouring down her face. “Yep?”

He lifts his hands to reach out to her, then lets them fall, feeling beyond helpless. “You okay?” It’s a ridiculous question, painfully fitting for such a ridiculous situation, and he’s unsurprised by Sara’s reply.

“No.” Bracing her hands on the metal shelf, she draws in a deep breath and turns to face him. Her face is ashen, her eyes filled with a muted horror that makes his heart lurch. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Neither can I.” He’s mourning the man who once ground his heel into his mutilated toes so hard that he thought he’d pass out from the pain. It shouldn’t make sense, and yet here he is, wishing he could turn back the clock and find another way to get through that goddamned pipe. “He saved Lincoln’s life in that tunnel.”

She nods, her arms wrapped around herself. “Lincoln told me.”

 _When?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t. He tells himself he should be grateful that the two people he loves most in the world are communicating with each other, but he can’t deny he’s selfish when it comes to her time. There never seems to be enough hours in the day, or even minutes in the hour, for them to talk about anything other than cards and drills and nosebleeds and low blood pressure.

Before he can speak, she sniffs loudly, then takes one step towards the steps leading to the conference table. “I should get back to that paperwork-”

He closes the distance between them with two easy strides, curling his hand loosely around her elbow. “Why don’t you take a break?” He knows she’s been sitting at that table for the last four hours, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen her eat or drink anything since last night.

She opens her mouth, no doubt to argue with him, then covers his hand with her own, her reddened gaze locking with his, the shared knowledge of the tiny time bomb inside his skull flashing between them. “Only if you take one, too.”

He thinks of everything he has to do, then of Brad Bellick’s pale, lifeless face. “Okay.”

By tacit agreement, they start to make their way towards her landlocked sleeping quarters. As they pass the kitchen, he pauses, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Do you want something to eat? A drink, maybe?”

She gives him a humorless smile. “Shot of bourbon would hit the spot.”

He rubs his hand down her back, feeling her tense beneath his touch. “Not sure about bourbon, but I think I could rustle up a few sodas. Would that do?” Catching a spark of amusement in her eyes, he looks at her. “What?”

A second smile plays fleetingly about her lips as she lifts her head, a determined set to her chin. “I’m just trying to remember the last time I heard someone use the words _rustle up_.”

He studies her, marveling anew at the strength that lies beneath the fragility of her bones and delicate beauty of her face. “Are you suggesting I’m out of touch?”

She shakes her head, her eyes still glistening with the tears he knows are not only for Brad. “Not at all.” She leans almost imperceptibly into his touch, her spine arching beneath his splayed hand, then pulls away. “I just-” Her words stumble and scatter, and he hears the breathless despair that catches in her throat. “I just need another minute, I’m sorry.”

“Sure.” He thinks of the way she'd held his hands when he'd had to leave her after they'd learned of Bruce's death, her fingers wound so tight through his her knuckles had turned white. He’s not letting her go through this alone, not this time. “I’ll be up there soon, okay?”

She nods, her lips pressed into a tight line, then she turns and heads straight for the small boat that’s been her bedroom since they embarked on this ill-advised venture. He watches her go, his heart pounding heavily enough to bruise his ribs, then makes his way towards the small kitchen area, knowing that if there _were_ a bottle of bourbon in one of these cupboards, he’d be tempted to have a slug himself.

~*~

Lincoln is sitting at the table in the kitchen alcove, nursing an untouched beer. He watches in silence as Michael retrieves two cans of soda, then lets out a heavy sigh. “He told me to get out of there.” His voice is flat. Hollow. “Told me to get out because I had a son. Brad Bellick gave his life for mine, for fuck’s sake.”

They look at each other, united in their disbelief that they were grieving a man who had once taken so much pleasure in making their lives such a misery, then Lincoln shakes his head. “When will you hear from the hospital?”

Michael blinks at the sudden and unwelcome change of subject. “A few hours maybe, I’m not sure. The doctor is going to call Sara as soon as he gets the results of the MRI.”

Concern shimmers in Lincoln’s bright blue gaze as it burns into his, missing nothing, seeing far too much. “Did you tell him about Mom?”

Michael wants to look away, but he knows that won’t stop Lincoln from seeing the fear in his eyes. “Yes.”

Hearing a muffled sound behind them, they turn in unison to see Sucre approaching, angrily dashing his eyes with the back of his hand, his fingers clenched around a shredded piece of paper. He’s weeping for Brad Bellick, for his mother, and for a moment, Michael feels like joining him.

“You talked to Brad’s mother?” he asks as Lincoln reaches for the door of the nearby refrigerator. He hasn’t spoken to Sucre about his visit to the hospital, and he silently prays that Lincoln won’t take it upon himself to do it for him. It's not that he doesn't trust Sucre. It's just that he can't bear to see _that_ look in yet another person's eyes. That worried, over-protective look both his brother and Sara seem to give him every time they glance at him.

Sucre jerks his head in an abrupt nod, taking a second beer from Lincoln’s outstretched almost as an afterthought. “Yes.”

Lincoln’s head is bowed, and Michael wonders if his brother is remembering his own onerous task of breaking the news of a beloved’s death. If Michael closes his eyes, he can still see his brother’s face through the Sona fence, his features gaunt with despair. “Thank you for doing that.”

“I owed it to Brad.” Sucre takes a long sip of beer, then clunks the bottle onto the table with a clumsy hand. “But I never want to have to make a call like that again, man.”

Lifting his hand, Michael squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “You won’t have to.”

Sucre looks at him with dark, serious eyes. “I hope you’re right, Papi.”

There’s a sudden lump in Michael’s throat, thankfully trapping the words he knows none of them want to hear. _So do I_.

 

~*~

 

The first thing she does when she reaches her quarters is to draw the small curtains, blocking out the rest of the warehouse from her sight. It’s foolish, she knows, but she’ll take anything that helps her forget the world outside these four curved walls and lets her be alone with her thoughts, if only for a brief moment.

As she slips off her shoes, Sara thinks of everything she knows about PUGNAc. She thinks about the side effects of insulin when used by a non-diabetic. She thinks of the possibility that both these things may have contributed to Michael’s current symptoms. She thinks of all the times she’d taken Michael’s blood pressure and tested his blood, and she wants nothing more than to go back in time and find something, _anything_ that might alert her to the insidious growth hiding inside his perfectly shaped skull.

She thinks of all these things, and by the time she sinks down onto her bunk, she feels sick to her stomach. She had been Michael’s physician for almost three months. She’d seen him every day, testing his blood and taking his temperature and listening to his heartbeat. How could she have possibly have missed this?

She drops her head into her hands, filled with such a violent rush of reproach that it’s suddenly hard to draw a breath.

 _You didn’t notice he wasn’t a diabetic_ , she accuses herself scathingly. _Why would you notice anything else?_

She’d been too busy noticing too many other things. Too busy memorizing the indigo patterns on his skin, too distracted by the smooth warmth of his chest beneath her palm as she listening to the infuriatingly steady beat of his heart, too consumed with the nearness of him, his scent and his warmth enveloping her in the mock sanctuary of her office.

And now Brad Bellick is dead, another casualty of Don Self’s quest. When she’d looked into that coffin, it hadn’t been Brad’s face she’d seen. She’d told Michael he was the only thing she had left, and she hadn’t been exaggerating. She loves him as fiercely as she knows how to love a man, and if she loses him, she will lose herself. Perhaps, in another life, she would have been too proud to admit such a thing, but that life is long gone.

She reaches for one of the pillows at the end of her bunk, the one Michael had last used two nights ago. Bowing her head, she inhales the lingering scent of him, closing her eyes as she remembers the feel of his warm body wrapped around hers. He needs to save them all from the Company, she wants to save him from himself, and she’s suddenly afraid they will be forced to choose either one or the other.

 

~*~

 

The curtains in the boat’s cabin are drawn, turning the small space into a cool, private cave, and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Sara is sitting on her narrow bunk, her bare feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. She’s cradling a pillow in her arms, and he wonders if it’s because she needs to hold onto something or wants a barrier, however thin, between herself and the rest of the world. _Or himself_ , he thinks unhappily.

“I have soda,” he announces needlessly as he places the cans on the small shelf beside the bunk - she has eyes, after all – but the urge to fill the silence in the small cabin is overwhelming.

She sits up a little straighter, putting the pillow to one side as she draws her legs up underneath her. “And candy too, I see.”

He nods as he tumbles several candy bars onto the mattress beside her. “We seem to have a glut of it since Roland-” He catches himself, but it’s too late. A hollow pang of regret streaks through him, and his hand seems to tingle with the memory of Roland’s last, fierce grip. _I’m not ready to go, man._ God, will there ever be a day when he isn’t forced to think about death?

“Since Roland died,” Sara supplies gently, her gaze sliding away from his as she sweeps aside the candy bars in a subtle gesture of invitation, one that he is quick to accept. He lowers himself onto the bunk beside her, repressing the instinctive urge to curl his hand around the curve of her knee. She may have tossed aside the pillow, but the air between them still bristles with an unmistakable vibe of _distance_. “He apologized to me, you know,” she murmurs as he hands her a soda, her gaze trained on the brightly coloured can.

Michael frowns. He normally has no trouble following her train of thought, but his head is admittedly a little fuzzy today. “Brad?”

“No, Roland.” She glances up at him, a lightening quick gauging of his expression. “Before we left to intercept the General.” She rubs her thumb over the tiny drops of moisture dotting the rim of the soda can. “He told me he was sorry about Vegas, but of course it wasn’t about Vegas at all.”

There are a dozen things he wants to say, but he bites his tongue, deducing from her hesitation that there is more she wants to tell him.

“He asked me why you and I were still here when you weren’t wearing your ankle bracelet anymore.”

He doesn’t feel like smiling, but his mouth still curves at her wry delivery. “There are times when I wonder the same thing.”

She glances at him again, longer this time, a faintly self-conscious timbre creeping into her voice. “He also asked why we weren’t having hot fugitive sex in every no-tell motel from here to New Mexico.”

He’s very glad he’s yet to take a sip of soda, because he probably would have choked on it. For all his faults, Michael thinks, Roland had an uncanny knack of hitting the nail on the head. “What did you say?”

“I told him that this thing was bigger that what two people might want.”

God help him, he can’t stop his next words from coming out of his mouth. “Do you _want_ to be having hot fugitive sex in no-tell motels?”

Just saying the words sends a flash of heat across his skin, and from the tinge of colour in Sara’s face, he’s not the only one. Her hands tighten around her can of soda, then she looks him in the eye. “Do you?”

 _Oh, God._ The flash of heat goes deeper, seeping into his blood and his flesh. “I just want to be with you,” he finally manages to say, his hands curling into his own knees to stop himself from reaching out for her. “I want this to be over, and I want to be with you.”

Her mouth quirks in a quick smile, then her hand is on his shoulder, urging him downward until his head is resting on her demin-clad thigh. He suspects there’s a candy bar under his hip, but he doesn’t particularly care, not when Sara’s cool fingers are exploring his forehead and the curve of his skull. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” He closes his eyes, allowing himself to relish her touch, letting the familiar scent of her aquatic bedroom sink into his senses. The air here always smells of soap and shampoo and the memory of lovemaking, a potpourri that’s as comforting as it is seductive.

They sit in silence for several minutes, and he feels the tension seep from his bones with every new brush of her hand against his hot skin. When she trails her fingertips over his shoulder, he reaches up to capture her hand in his, pulling it down to rest against his heart. “Brad saved my life, too, not just Linc’s.”

“How do you mean?”

Her voice is soft and as deliciously soothing as her touch, and he wants nothing more than to stay on this narrow bunk for the next several days, letting her words and hands smooth all his ragged edges. “I was going to climb into the pipe with Linc, but Brad stopped me.” His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he can still see Brad’s self-depreciating smile. _No offence, college boy._ “He took my place.”

Sara cups his face with her free hand, her palm cool against his cheek. “It was Brad’s place as much as it was yours, Michael.”

“It was _my_ plan,” he mutters, opening his eyes as he rolls onto his back to stare up at her, willing her to understand. “My decision to go through that pipe.”

“And it was Brad’s choice to do what he did.” Her gaze locks with his as her lips twitch in the pale imitation of a smile. “You don’t have the monopoly on sacrifice, you know.”

It suddenly hurts to look at her, and he closes his eyes once more. He feels her thigh shift beneath his head, then the soft pressure of her mouth on his, a fleeting, delicate kiss that is both a reassurance and a tentative invitation. When she lifts her head, the tenderness in her eyes sends a surge of longing through his blood like a fever. Digging his elbow into the thin mattress, he struggles to sit up, but she’s too quick for him, nimbly easing her leg from beneath his head and stretching out beside him. “Sara-”

“Ssshhhh.” She hushes him softly, her breath warm against his ear, her hands gentle as they roam over his body. “Lie still, okay?”

He manages to choke out a disbelieving, “Are you kidding me?” before she’s kissing him again, then he’s kissing _her_ , pouring his fear and hunger and pain into the dark sweetness of her mouth. Her hands seem to be everywhere, undoing buttons and sliding inside his clothes to touch him with a gentle determination that makes him gasp. The sudden pounding of his pulse somewhere other than his temples compels him to completely disregard her injunction to stay still.

Her eyes flutter shut at the first touch of his hands on her breasts, covering her mouth with his in time to taste her moan of pleasure as he cups the warmth between her legs. They don’t have time for this and his head feels as though it’s filled with broken glass, but he doesn’t stop and neither does she, tugging at clothing and fumbling with a condom and shifting their bodies until she hooks her leg over his hip and the slick heat of her is suddenly pressed against his straining flesh.

“Now,” she whispers against his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s a request or a declaration, then she shifts her hips and he’s sliding into her, the hollow of her body sleek and tight around him, and he knows it was both.

He says her name, then all his words leave him as they begin to move together, a slow dance of need and desire and desperation and fear. She rises above him, her pale skin flushed, the swell of her breasts filling his hands as he tugs down the lace of her bra. Catching his wrists, she holds his hands in place against her, closing her eyes as he touches her, his fingertips finding the tight rise of her nipples. “God, Michael, please-”

The blood is pounding in his ears, but it’s not the same as this morning. Now it’s thick and rich, a languid pulsing of arousal, and he knows this is going to be over all too fast. He reaches up one hand, curling his palm around the nape of her neck and pulling her down to him, wanting to taste her mouth. He kisses her, hard and deep, his other hand still on her breast, kneading and coaxing, remembering very well how she likes to be touched when he’s inside her.

They kiss for what feels like a very long time, his body finding a home in the heat of hers again and again, then a soft gasp whispers from her mouth to his, her hips jerking against his with an urgency that pushes him to the limits of his own endurance. When her release shudders through her almost violently (her voice is gentle when she says his name) he gladly gives into the swell of pleasure clawing at his flesh, losing and finding himself in the same heartbeat.

They lie entangled on her narrow bunk, what little clothing they’re still wearing clinging to skin damp with sweat. The pain in his head has faded to a dull but ignorable ache, and while he knows these fleeting moments of relief are a placebo for both of them, he can no more give them up than he could leave Sara behind in Chicago. “At the hospital, when you told them you were my wife-”

He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s blushing. “What about it?”

A dozen different images flash through his head. Bellick’s lifeless face. The first glimpse of Sara’s face in a safe house in Chicago. The desperation in Roland’s eyes. Sliding into the metal coffin of the MRI machine, the cold air nipping at his skin. Listening to Lincoln promise LJ that all this would soon be over. Sara’s smile as she watched him leave the waiting room. Somehow, he thinks, it always comes back to her. “I liked it.”

“So did I.” Before he can speak again, she kisses his forehead, her lips lingering on his skin, as though she’s trying to will away the malevolent imbalance inside his head. Her legs tangle lazily with his as she props herself up on her elbow, one slender hand sliding between his thigh and the mattress. He opens his mouth to ask what she’s doing, then she holds up a flattened Butterfinger bar. “I guess that explains the rustling noise I heard,” she murmurs, grinning, and it’s suddenly easy to smile.

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

Her answering eye-roll is both tender and eloquent as she waves the candy in front of his nose. “Still hungry?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Knowing they’re both needed outside, they dress quickly and wordlessly. New tendrils of discomfort are already curling through his head, and he knows he’s racing against his own body clock. He watches Sara as she gathers up the abandoned candy bars, dumping them on the shelf before picking up both their sodas. “They’re still cold,” she remarks lightly, and he gladly seizes the opening she’s given him. Anything to pretend they’re just another couple, teasing each other after making love for no other reason other than wanting to make love. Not because they’re desperately trying to escape, to reconnect amidst a storm of misunderstanding and tension, to find a moment’s pleasure in the middle of a waking nightmare.

“What are you implying?” he asks with mock injury, and she gives him a guileless smile.

“Oh, nothing.” She makes a show of taking a long sip from her soda, but her carefully schooled expression can’t hide the fear in her eyes. “Just looking forward to the day when we can take our time, I guess.”

He takes his own soda from her outstretched hand, letting his fingers brush against hers, a tiny gesture of normalcy that burns itself into his consciousness. They might be surviving on placebos and blind faith, but placebos and blind faith are better than nothing. “Me too.”

 

~*~


End file.
